Entropy
by captain-tots
Summary: The amount of disorder in a closed system is always increasing. It is certain that the Umbrella Corporation will fall, but who will go down with it is yet to be determined. Pre-Mansion. AUish/Alternate Timeline. HIATUS.
1. Trust

Entropy

The second law of thermodynamics states that the amount of disorder in a closed system is always increasing.

The measurement of this disorder is called "entropy."

* * *

Chapter One.

_For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?_

**-Mark 8:36**

* * *

_Author's Note: _Thanks for taking a look at my second chaptered fanfiction! I've been toying with this fic for a long time now, and it's gone through many different forms before arriving where it is today. Originally, it was meant to be a dystopian what-if scenerio, until I realized that all I wanted to write were flashbacks to Umbrella. This story is going to follow the fall of Umbrella, from Marcus's assassination onward. I hope you enjoy. =)

* * *

**August 24, 1980**

"What time does the team get there?"

"We're meeting the team at 3:00 AM outside the training facility."

"Okay. Just double checking."

Albert Wesker gave his companion, William Birkin, a quick glance. William couldn't see through Wesker's dark sunglasses, but he imagined the other man was giving him a look of exasperation. William had been asking him questions all night.

"You sure you should be wearing those glasses to drive?"

A flat, "yes," was all the answer William got to that particular one. For the infinite time that night, he ground his teeth together and wondered just what the hell he was doing. His hands were shaking like a leaf in the breeze. His nerves were shot to hell—his nerves were _always_ shot to hell, but tonight he wanted to jump out of his own body he was so anxious.

"Hey, Al, what time is it?"

"It's 2:15," Wesker replied, in a tone reminiscent of an exhausted parent.

"Can we stop for coffee?"

"Do you want to leave a sample of your hair at the scene too?"

"I'm not an idiot. I'll leave the coffee in the car."

"Alright."

Wesker pulled the car into a Stagla gas station. The unnatural glow of the halogen lights surrounding the pumps made William wince. His headache was back. Perhaps Albert had the right idea, wearing sunglasses all the time. It added to the severity of his appearance—the perfectly ironed all black clothing, the lab coat that added an aura of authority. He looked every bit the part of an assassin tonight.

"Will," Wesker said, drawing his attention. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah, sorry."

The station was mercifully empty, except for a languid cashier, leaning into the counter and yawning every five seconds. William grabbed a styrofoam cup, hands still shaking, and did his best to pour the coffee in without making a mess everywhere. He turned around and Wesker was _just there—_he didn't even hear him coming. William almost jumped, thoroughly spooked as it was. Wesker intimidated him at times. He seemed so disaffected by everything. It made him nervous.

"Are you ready?"

"Uh, yeah, I just need to pay."

William sat his cup down on the counter, only to tip it over, soaking the counter in hot coffee.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay. But are you sure you need more coffee with those shakes?" the cashier asked, a grin affixed to her face.

"Uh, yeah."

"If you say so. That'll be... seventy-five cents."

William reached into his pocket and found it empty. He stifled a groan.

"Hey, Al?"

"What?"

"Do you have seventy-five cents?"

He could feel Wesker's incredulous stare boring a hole through the glasses.

"I didn't bring my wallet! You said to not have any ID on me—"

Wesker threw a dollar bill onto the counter.

"Please, keep the change, miss," he said, his voice almost a growl.

The pair left the station, and made their way out to the car. It was an ugly black station wagon, property of Umbrella. Wesker would have never owned something so unwieldy, and William wasn't in the habit of driving. Everything he needed was usually within a few feet of him, he was fond of saying. However, the benefit to the station wagon was that it had plenty of space in the back, for all the documents they would be recovering.

That was what would make it worth it, he had told himself a million times. He wasn't going to sleep for days, and when he finally could sleep, he would dream about this night, and he might never really trust Albert again—not to mention trust his own self. But, if he could recover one box of documents on T, it would all be worth it. The wasted potential of Dr. Marcus's research made him ill. The man had the answer to the Tyrant under his nose, and all he wanted to do was play with leeches.

"Always be adaptable," William made a mental note. "Don't get too attached."

Wesker unlocked the ugly car, and William ducked inside. Once he was seated, he braced himself for Wesker's reprimand. The ID incident was unforgivable. How had he been so loose lipped? Fucking anxiety was trying to make him crack before they even got there.

"Don't say anything else tonight," Wesker commanded.

William nodded in silent agreement. He took a sip of his coffee. It was burnt. Definitely not worth the trouble. He laid his head against the backseat and tried to relax. It was a lost cause. His leg bumped up against the glove box while Wesker piloted the car down the empty streets. Wesker was so removed from everything. It made William nervous.

Streets turned into roads, which lead up into the Arklay Mountains. The facility was pretty close to their new lab, the "mansion," as they had dubbed it. William stirred from his slumped position in the seat to look out the windows. They were about five minutes away. His stomach knotted.

More coffee.

What the hell was he doing?

"Hey, Al?"

"What," Wesker replied, a statement, not a question.

"If Spencer told you to supervise my assassination, would you?"

Wesker gave him a brief look.

"What sort of question is that?"

"One I'm curious about. I mean, we've both known Dr. Marcus about as long as we've known each other."

"No one is going to assassinate you, William. Umbrella needs you."

"Yeah, well they needed Dr. Marcus too."

"Dr. Marcus outlived his usefulness. We won't."

Wesker made the turn into the parking lot of the training facility. It had been empty for months. A singular black van sat in the lot.

"They're early," William commented, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Preferable to being late."

"Yeah."

Wesker parked the car next to the van and shut off the engine.

"I wouldn't, by the way," he spoke to William.

"Hmm?"

"I wouldn't supervise your assassination. I would warn you."

"Thanks," William replied, letting go of a breath it felt like he had been holding the whole ride.

William wondered at what point in his life a promise to not kill him became the benchmark of a successful friendship.

"Ready?" Wesker asked.

"Yeah."

Wesker got out of the car and Birkin followed behind him. The Umbrella Security Service members poured out of the van. Black hats, all black combat armor, machine guns, and identically stern facial expressions, like they were cut from stone. They looked like something out of an action movie. Wesker shook the hand of the squad leader, who was indistinguishable from the rest of the team, with the exception of a red band on his hat.

"Good evening gentlemen. My partner and I will be leading you through the facility."

* * *

The Training Facility seemed almost haunted. William didn't believe in ghosts, but if they were real, he was sure they would inhabit a place like this. There was no light except for the tinny brightness of the U.S.S. Leader's flashlight. The hallways somehow seemed so much larger than they did only three years ago. He was fifteen when had come to the Training Facility, fresh out of University of Chicago, PhD in hand. The youngest in the world. There was a newspaper article about it somewhere. Umbrella Chicago had recruited him, and when they offered him a chance to get out of Illinois and relocate to the new Umbrella Training Facility in Raccoon City, Minnesota, he couldn't have left fast enough.

The Training Facility had only been his home for a short while, but it had impressed it's self upon his mind. The ornate gothic decorations and stoic architecture was a far cry from the sterility of the Chicago office. The heaviness of the décor seemed to permeate the air with a sense of foreboding.

The hallways tapered off into the laboratory, where the pair was certain they would find Dr. Marcus. He worked at all hours of the night, a habit which William himself had picked up. Wesker went to open the door, and stopped suddenly. The heavy metal doors were locked in place.

"Why do you think he locks the doors if no one's here?" William whispered to Wesker.

"We're here, aren't we?"

"You think he knows?"

"Dr. Marcus was always paranoid," Wesker responded with a shrug. The past tense unnerved William. Ever since they got the orders to supervise Dr. Marcus's assassination, William had been practicing imagining him dead. Dr. Marcus was already dead. The powers that be had made it so. William and Wesker were just the messengers.

Wesker turned to address the U.S.S. Team.

"Make it quick, please. And double tap. We don't need any nasty surprises coming back to haunt us."

"Affirmative," the squad leader replied. "Do we anticipate any biological weapons?"

"We do not anticipate it, but anything is possible."

Wesker pulled a master key card from the pockets of his lab coat and stuck it in the door. It opened with a pneumatic _woosh_, the volume of which suggested that the doors hadn't been opened in some time.

"Here we go," Wesker whispered to William.

"Oh my God, we're going to kill Dr. Marcus," William said, feeling weak in the knees. Wesker had already followed the U.S.S. Members in. William heard a bust of automatic fire, and then broken glass. He rushed in behind Wesker. Just before he stepped in the lab, he felt a rush of cold air on his neck. He turned around, but there was nothing there.

"Keep it together, Will," he thought.

The lab was just as he remembered it, outdated tiled walls and a tank of leeches in the far corner. He and Wesker once privately referred to it as the world's scariest bathroom, because of the combination of the white tile walls and bright lights. One tank had been pierced by a bullet and was leaking out stasis fluid onto the floor.

Dr. Marcus was a gruesome sight. Blood soaked his lab coat, which was already covered in previous stains. Adding insult to injury, a specimen had fallen and landed on his neck. The engorged leech sat there like an ugly necklace, sucking the lifeblood from it's creator, who didn't have much to spare to begin with.

Dr. Marcus whimpered in pain.

"Shhh, it's time to die now," Wesker said, in mock comfort. The situation was so bizarre, William couldn't help but laugh.

"I'll be taking over your research!" he exclaimed, before he burst into more erratic laughter.

It was surreal.

A U.S.S. Member shot Dr. Marcus again, right between the eyes, splitting his head open like a gruesome pumpkin.

"He's dead," Wesker commented, deadpan.

"Just making really sure, boss. Where should we put the body?"

"Take it to the incinerator in the basement," William said, addressing the mercenaries for the first time that night.

"Uh, is that okay?" the mercenary asked Wesker. William grit his teeth, but he was used to authority being defaulted to Wesker.

"Is that what he told you?"

"Yeah..."

"Then do it."

"Yes, sir."

Two mercenaries picked up Dr. Marcus's body and began to walk away.

"Um, don't you need some directions?" William asked.

"It's the big, hot thing in the basement, right?"

"That sounds about right."

The two men took out Dr. Marcus's body, and William turned to Wesker, whom cracked his knuckles and gave a brief smile.

"We better get started carrying out these documents, Dr. Birkin."

"Holy shit."

The entire back wall of the laboratory was shelved, a recent development, and filled with binders which must have been six inches thick. Each binder had month written on the spine, from June 1968 to July 1980.

"I wish Dr. Marcus had believed in using computers," William sighed.

"You could use the exercise," Wesker quipped, grabbing four of the massive binders off the top shelf. William stood on his toes and pulled March 1980 down.

"What the hell was he writing on, granite?" William pulled one hand from under the binder and pointed at the remaining U.S.S. Members. "Why are you all just standing there?"

* * *

"So, where are we taking all these?" William asked Wesker, as they drove away from the Training Facility. The car was packed to the brim with binders. William was still shaking. Everything felt surreal. He was certain the events of the night would catch up with him soon.

"Your apartment or my house," Wesker offered. "We can't very well be seen hauling all of Dr. Marcus's research through Arklay."

"I'm not lugging these binders up the stairs to your front door."

"There's six steps, Will."

"Six more than taking the elevator."

"You want to have all the research to yourself for the night."

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Well, don't expect me to leave any time tonight."

"Hey, that's fine by me. When do we have to return the car?"

"Not soon enough," Wesker said, with audible annoyance. "It's like driving a manatee."

"Do we have to go in to Arklay today? I feel like killing our former mentor should be grounds to call off."

"If you want to call the office manager and tell her, go right ahead," Wesker replied, with a hint of sarcasm.

"Who hired her anyway? It wasn't either of us."

"Probably Spencer. He has a penchant for sociopaths after all."

"Yeah," William agreed, wondering if he was one of those sociopaths. He didn't really feel _guilty_ about Dr. Marcus's death... just worried.

Wesker pulled up to the street next to William's apartment building.

"Do you have a hand truck?" Wesker asked.

William stared back blankly.

"What's a hand truck?"

Wesker looked at the pile of binders in the trunk and backseat of the car and then turned to his scrawny partner in the passenger seat. There were almost 150 binders of research to be taken inside. The clock on the dashboard read 5:36 AM.

"Why don't you call Christine and tell her we won't be in this morning?"

"You call her. She's thinks you're cute."

"That's most unfortunate," Wesker scoffed. "You do that; I'm going to go to my house and getting a dolly."

"Oh, that's what that is! No, I don't have one."

Wesker gave him another tired stare before getting back into the car. William shrugged and entered his building.

* * *

"Did ya' find the incinerator?" the U.S.S. Squad commander asked his operatives. The team was sitting in their van and cleaning their guns.

"Nah, we didn't see it. I don't think the one in the white shirt knew what he was talking about," one operative answered.

"Where'd you put the body then?"

"Don't worry, boss. We sunk it in the basement sewer. Ol' Dr. Marcus is sleeping with the fishes."

"Eh, that's fine. The place is completely abandoned. Nobody's gonna be trawling around in the basement with a fishing net or anything."

"Yeah, no one's gonna find that poor son of a bitch's body."

* * *

**August 26, 1980**

"But, could you imagine, if we combined a variant of Progenitor Virus with the Ebola Virus, the results would be _fascinating_."

"I agree, Dr. Birkin! You know, I did some research into the Ebola virus myself—just out of personal interest, for fun, and what I found most interesting was that..."

"Will, come here," Wesker called across the lab. William was going over the results of an electrophoresis with an over eager lab assistant, Annette Weiss. She was small and blonde, and constantly trying to impress William, who couldn't help but appreciate the attention.

"What is it, Al? I'm a little busy."

"We're going to run an experiment with the Type-B," Wesker replied, sounding rather impatient.

"Alright, I'm coming." William turned to Annette and gave her an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I gotta go visit my girlfriend."

Annette's face fell.

"Who's that?"

"Her name is Lisa Trevor," William said with a laugh. "At least, for all the time I spend with her, you'd think she was."

Annette laughed too, obviously relieved.

"Alright, we'll talk about Ebola later?"

"Of course."

William caught up with Wesker, who had decided to start walking down the hall rather than wait for William. He was holding a metal briefcase, the kind that were used to hold samples.

"What are we doing?"

"We're going to inject Lisa with the T-Virus," Wesker replied. "After studying the new reports, I feel as though it's time we made our way into human testing."

William nodded.

"Why start with the Trevor girl? All of her results are decidedly... abnormal."

"Well, if it kills her, then we know we're on to something," Wesker replied, with a half smile.

"Where are we going to get the test subjects from?" William asked. Wesker was the one who arranged the experiments, and William was the one who read the results. It was a winning strategy for the most part.

"After we test the Trevor girl, I have a meeting with Spencer."

"And you didn't invite me?" William said, in mock sadness.

"Shh. Don't say anything now, okay?"

Wesker stepped onto the elevator to the basement, and William followed behind him. When the doors pinged open, William saw that the room Lisa Trevor was kept in was filled with researchers. He felt his throat tighten. What was going on? The anxiety he'd experienced after Dr. Marcus's death had yet to fade.

"Good morning, Dr. Toleman, Dr. Ross, Dr. Sarton, and Dr. Smith," Wesker said, panning through the room and calling them all by name. He was capable of being very charming when it could benefit him. "Today, I'd like to introduce you all to something extraordinary. Our colleague, Dr. William Birkin, has created something _unprecedented,_ and today you will all be the first to witness the application of his Tyrant Virus."

The researchers clapped in a polite tizzy and William found himself to be extremely confused. He hadn't created the Tyrant Virus.

In the midst of the congratulations and pats on the shoulder from his fellow researchers, Wesker shook his hand and whispered, "Trust me."


	2. Ego

Chapter Two.

"_He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past."_

**-George Orwell, ****1984**

* * *

**August 26, 1980.**

**08:05 **

"Lord Spencer will be prepared to see you in just a moment, Mr. Wesker."

Wesker gave the assistant a curt nod and sank into the pretentious green velvet chair behind him. Spencer's office suite was decorated in such bad taste, that it crossed the line of ridiculous and entered the realm of the distinguished. It was all mahogany wood and deep red drapery that blocked out the light; portraits of long dead ancestors and bookshelves full of volumes that never had been read. In the midst of the anachronism was Spencer's new assistant, a smiling women of indeterminate age in an navy suit similar to that of a flight attendant. She had blunt blonde bangs, crinkly blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles over her cheeks. Her Umbrella Corporation name tag read, "Jenny K."

How sweet.

Wesker wondered what sort of plane accidentally dropped her into the Arklay Mansion.

He kept count of the passing seconds, tapping his foot against the floor. Spencer liked to keep him waiting. It was a subtle reminder of who pulled the strings.

Despite the fact that Spencer maintained a brief residency in the Arklay Mansion, he was a veritable stranger to the entire staff, with the exception of Wesker, and Birkin, to a lesser degree. He would arrive from England or Paris without notice, and go about his business in the living quarters of the mansion, often not even informing Wesker that he was present. His schedule seemed to have no pattern. Spencer was a man with secrets, ones that Wesker would have been eager to unearth. But, that was not a task for today. This meeting was a simple request.

Stewardess Jenny's phone buzzed on the desk, a button on the console lit up.

"Lord Spencer is ready to see you, Mister Wesker," she said, an unusual amount of cheer in her words.

Wesker rose from the chair and briefly composed himself. His sunglasses were in place, jacket wrinkle free, no strands of hair misplaced. Spencer was waiting behind the heavy door.

"Albert, it's always a pleasure," Spencer announced, adjusting his wheelchair to face Wesker. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. There was something innately unsettling to Wesker about Spencer's mannerisms—his feigned friendship stood at odds with his deeply private nature.

Spencer was dressed the part of a Lord, in a burgundy waistcoat with brass buttons. He was seated in his wheelchair, facing the window to the courtyard, as if he was deep in thought. It occurred to Wesker that, in order to call his assistant, he would have had to wheel over to his desk, call her, and then resume his introspective position at the window. Wesker chose to not comment on it.

"Good morning, Lord Spencer."

"Albert, please do have a seat."

The interior of Spencer's study was rather similar to that of the office which served as the reception area, with the notable exception of a bed in the corner. The seating was limited to a single office chair which faced Spencer's desk. Wesker sat down, and Spencer wheeled himself to the opposing side of the desk. Wesker noted that the room must have been slanted in some way, for Spencer seemed to be on higher ground than himself.

"How has the information obtained from Dr. Marcus suited you and Dr. Birkin?" Spencer asked with a smile, unable to contain his amusement at the demise of his business partner.

"It has been quite helpful in our efforts to improve the T-Virus," Wesker replied, even tone and blank expression. Spencer beamed.

"How excellent. Where is Dr. Birkin today?"

"Dr. Birkin is continuing to study the files we obtained."

Spencer laughed, and Wesker momentarily winced. It was an awful noise, like a horse's bray.

"Why, isn't that so terribly like William? No thought to anything but his research."

"I do agree that Dr. Birkin is dedicated to his work."

"Oh, Albert, you don't need to make excuses for him here. You're among friends!"

Wesker nodded in agreement, though if Dr. Marcus had been Spencer's friend, Wesker wanted nothing to do with his "friendship."

"You know what I like about you, Albert? You're smart as a whip. You know how to play the game; how to talk to the right people."

"Thank you."

"What's your secret? Is it the sunglasses?" Spencer cackled at his own joke, before shuffling some papers on his desk. He abruptly changed the subject. "I understand you have a request of me?"

Wesker chose to cut straight to the point.

"Dr. Birkin and I want to begin testing the T-Virus on humans."

Spencer feigned surprise.

"You expect me to allow you to experiment on human beings? Don't you know that's against the law?"

"The Parisian branch and Rockfort Island have been experimenting on humans for years."

"Rumors and lies," Spencer said, waving his hand, as if to dismiss the claim.

"Lord Spencer, with all due respect, I am well aware that the Parisian and Rockfort Island facilities do experiment on humans."

Spencer smiled, thin lips spread so far across his face it looked like a Chelsea grin.

"Nothing slips past you, does it, Albert? Though, do you believe that the researchers will not have moral qualms towards experimenting on humans?"

Wesker had been expecting this question.

"Certainly, I expect the staff will at first display concern. However, it's really all a matter of coercion. Social Darwinism is back in vogue. All it should take is some ego boosting, a vague reference to the communists, or asking, 'Who is John Galt,' and they'll be seeing our way in no time."

Spencer nodded, approving of his answer.

"And as for Dr. Birkin?"

"I credited him with the creation of the T-Virus, as you instructed."

"Excellent. Now then, Albert, I would like you to review the goals for the T-Virus project for me."

"A one-hundred percent mortality rate."

Spencer clapped his hands together, like a kid in a candy store.

"Correct! Those sticklers in the military wouldn't buy anything less. After all, we can't have any witnesses lying around." Spencer once again shuffled the papers on his desk, before plucking one out of the pile and stamping it. He slid it across the desk at Wesker, whom had to stand to pick it up.

_Subject:_ _Approval to test on human subjects granted to Albert Wesker and Dr. William Birkin._

_ Date: August 16, 1980. _

_ Permit expires: Non-expiring_

_ Limits: None_

Wesker stared at the piece of paper. Spencer had made it up this morning, and had just now stamped it with the Umbrella logo. He'd been intending to let him experiment on humans the whole time.

"It's been a very productive meeting, Albert. Unfortunately, I'm feeling another weak spell coming on."

Spencer reached for the phone and pulled it off it's cradle.

"Jenny, I need to be put to bed."

Wesker looked at him, puzzled.

"Jenny is your receptionist..." he began.

"Nurse," Spencer corrected. "It is a cruel reality of this world that a mind such as mine must languish inside a broken body. Someday, with the powers of pharmaceuticals, we will be able to conquer this ailment."

Jenny opened the door to Spencer's room. Wesker noticed that she was wearing three inch heels, not particularly conducive to a nurse.

"Lord Spencer, would you like me to run you a bath?"

Spencer waved at Wesker to dismiss him.

"Where should I obtain the test subjects from?" Wesker asked, clutching his approval form.

"Wherever you'd like, Albert. Just don't let it lead back to us. You are dismissed."

* * *

**09:12 **

Christine Henri smashed an obscenely long menthol cigarette into her overflowing ashtray. The Arklay Laboratory was a non-smoking facility. Christine's father was in charge of Umbrella Europe.

She reminded Wesker of a foul little mouse, small and pinched face. She was barely five feet tall, and seemed to be perpetually sucking on something sour. Her hair was dark brown and unruly, spilling out of an oversized claw clip. She tapped her freehand against the table, impatient.

"You want me to do what, Al?"

Wesker loathed Christine's forced familiarity.

"Request the transfer of several subjects from the Parisian facility to the Arklay Laboratory."

Christine wrinkled her nose at him and lit another cigarette.

William wouldn't go within ten yards of Christine's office. It "provoked his asthma." This statement was always made without an explanation as to why he was able to tolerate Christine's friend, Annette Weiss, whom smelled like a bar at closing.

"You know, there's not an unlimited supply of political prisoners. We don't exactly have a surplus." Christine had been the office manager for the Arklay Laboratory for two years, but still referred to Paris as, "we."

"I have the notice of approval from Spencer right here," Wesker said, trying to remain patient.

"Yeah, Al, and my daddy owns half of Paris, but that doesn't get me everything I want."

Wesker quietly seethed at her asinine comment.

"I think we can work out a deal though... maybe something with dinner involved?" Christine announced, fox grin.

"Excuse me?"

Wesker wondered if Christine saw the perversity in the idea of him taking her out to dinner in exchange for human test subjects.

Christine twirled her cigarette midair, like a magical wand.

"Oh, you know, some wine, candles, you take me home, turn me over and..."

"Are you implying that I should have sex with you in exchange for test subjects?"

"I'm not _implying_ anything."

Wesker rose from his seat in the shoddy aluminum chair.

While the mansion portion of Arklay was clad in luxurious excess, the lab had not fared so well. Christine's office was ugly, tiled floors and peeling paint; a workspace safety poster slowly peeling off the wall—it was meant to be humorous. Christine sat at her paper strewn desk in the center of the mess, her daddy's influence unable to reach her in the basement of some shady laboratory in Minnesota. Wesker shook his head at her.

"Goodbye, Miss Henri," Wesker said, turning for the door. He could nearly feel her eyes boring an angry hole in the back of his head.

"See ya tomorrow, Al."

Had he turned around, he would have seen Christine slam her desk drawer shut, but he could hear it all the same.

* * *

**13:22**

"What are you doing?" Wesker asked, almost groaning, as he entered William Birkin's apartment, unannounced. "I was told you called off sick today; did you recently become diagnosed with schizophrenia?"

"You're hysterical, Al."

Birkin was sitting at his desk, scrawling frantically into a notebook, with Dr. Marcus's notes open next to him. The apartment was filled with smoke and smelled like a bonfire. Wesker looked across the single room to the oven, and noticed black smoke pouring out of it.

"It's about time your oven got some use, but what are you doing?"

Birkin spun around in his chair and pointed a finger at Wesker.

"This is all your fault." He was in a state of perpetual exhaustion, today punctuated with a sort of uneven twitchyness.

"What on earth are you talking about, Will?"

"You had to go and say that I invented the T-Virus. No one is going to believe that when there's all this evidence to the contrary... I have to destroy all of Marcus's notes."

"Well," Wesker began, plotting out the appropriate route of conversation. "Had you been given the same resources as Marcus, you would have invented the T-Virus. And, in much less time at that."

"I know that. But, I didn't."

Wesker shrugged.

"Who's to say that? Once these notes are destroyed... you will have created the T-Virus. History belongs to the victors, yes?"

"I suppose." William kept scrawling in his notebook, before abruptly closing one of Marcus's binders. He tossed it over his shoulder, nearly missing Wesker. "Go put that in the oven."

Wesker eyed the binder.

"Just do it!" William yelped at him.

"Control your temper, Will," Wesker said, picking the binder off the floor.

Wesker found William's apartment to be innately depressing in it's size and sparsity, not to mention the way it implied that the occupant was never there. Everything was on top of it's self,; the kitchen that was never used infringing on the living room no one lived in, the bed shoved into a corner as an afterthought. The smoke didn't make matters any better.

Wesker pulled open the oven, and a billow of black smoke poured out, stinging his eyes. Wesker slammed the oven door closed and turned the appliance off.

"You're going to set the fire alarm off."

William threw himself against the back of the chair in one sweeping, overly dramatic motion.

"Let's kill Dr. Marcus and steal all his work, Will! It'll be fun! Let's say you came up with over a decade of data in two years! Let's tell everyone you invented the T-Virus!"

Wesker abandoned his task of attempting to open the window, and strode over to William's desk, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. William made a muffled squeak, as all the air was forced from his lungs. Wesker pulled him off his chair and nearly slammed him against the wall adjacent to the desk.

"Listen to me, Will. Are you listening?"

William nodded weakly.

"I am giving you the world. I am giving you _Umbrella_ on a silver fucking platter, with an apple in her mouth. All I am asking of you in return is to believe that you invented the T-Virus."

"Okay," he spat out, almost breathless.

With his free hand, Wesker undid the first two buttons on William's button down. His partner's breathing quickened, became shallow.

"Everyone will believe you invented the T-Virus when there's no evidence to the contrary. Marcus was a fool, never letting anyone know what he was working on. No one knows, Will." Wesker brushed his hand against the other man's collarbone. "No one knows."

William whimpered.

"You're the youngest PhD in the world. Who's to say what you could have accomplished?"

"No one?" William whispered.

"Right." Wesker brought his face very close to William's, lips right against his ear. "You invented the T-Virus. Dr. Marcus never could have done so without your research. Dr. Marcus stole from you, Will. Now you can reclaim what should have been yours."

"Okay..."

Wesker pulled away from William's ear, and studied his face for a minute. Dark circles under his big blue eyes, freckles pushing their way through paper white skin, a trickle of nervous sweat dripping down through his hair. Wesker smiled at him, something not quite cruel or kind.

"You invented T-Virus."

Wesker leaned in and kissed William, much to the other's surprise. He could feel the nervous heat radiating off of him, the subtle shakes, and then buckling knees. When he pulled away, Wesker thought William might be on the verge of passing out. Instead, he took a few steps back before he collapsed onto his couch and proceeded to stare aimlessly at a point on the blank walls.

"Hey, Al?"

"Yes?"

"Can you buy me some more notebooks? I don't want to be caught on camera buying so many in one day."

Wesker suppressed the urge to laugh.

"Sure. Take a nap while I'm gone; I have something to tell you that you need to be awake for."

"Okay." William laid back on the couch, still staring at what was directly in front of him.

Wesker exited the apartment, leaving William staring into space on the couch. He had been easier to deal with than Wesker anticipated. The revelation made him smile to himself, genuinely this time.

* * *

**15:06 **

The phone rang three times before he picked up. Always. Wesker waited. One. Two. Three.

"Hello?"

The voice was groggy, like he had just woken up. Rough too. He always sounded like he'd just gotten out of bed or a fight.

"Alex, it's Albert."

There was a pause. Alex cleared his throat. Wesker did the same.

"What do I owe the pleasure, Al?"

"Perhaps I just called to say, 'hello?"

They both scoffed at that one.

"Spare me," Alex quipped. "What do you want?"

"How well does Rockfort keep track of their... inventory?"

"Between you and me, old man Alexander is a nut. He spends all his time with his kids down in Antarctica, says the daughter is a savant or something. Alexander wouldn't notice one bit if some of our inventory disappeared."

"What kind of price are you looking at?"

Alex laughed.

"You don't even ask for the favor, do you? How about you just owe me one?"

"I would prefer to not, 'owe you one,' Alex."

"Alright, it's a trade then, eh? You send me a vial of that T-Virus you're working on, and I'll send you ten of our stock. No one owes anyone."

Wesker briefly considered the deal. It was likely that they would be forced to turn in a sample of the T-Virus to another research facility eventually. While the deal ran the risk of giving another lab a head start on the project, with the rate that Birkin worked at, there was no question as to which facility would make a breakthrough first.

"Agreed."

"Excellent. I'll prepare the shipment as soon as possible. Expect a fax from me shortly."

"Send the fax to my office personally, not the main office. The office manager and I do not see... eye to eye on certain things."

"You always were a charmer, Al. I'll be looking for your virus. Now, tell me, how's the easy life at Arklay treating you?"

Wesker did not respond.

"I couldn't resist. I suppose we all have our own skills, right? Well, _had_, by any means. You make viruses, and I, well, I break necks."

"Indeed."

"Don't be so sour. I'm helping you out here. Don't put the stock to waste, alright, Al?"

"You can be sure I will not. Goodbye, Alex."

Wesker sat the phone back down on his desk and looked around his lab space. No one was present. William was at home, either collapsed on his couch, or still burning notebooks. Sarton had dropped in earlier to ask a question, but hadn't been seen since. Wesker decided that he had done more than enough for one day, and left.

* * *

**Author's Note:** And thus, the stage is set for things to start to get stranger and stranger... **  
**

Much thanks to Saint Sentiment and Riot Siren for their super kind reviews.

My Spencer is shamelessly borrowed from sadlittletiger's headcannon.


	3. Empathy

Chapter Three.

"_We stopped checking for monsters under the bed when we realized they were inside us"_

_ -_**Invisible Monsters, Chuck Palahunik **

* * *

**August 17, 1980**

**23:52 **

"What took you so long?" Christine griped. She was laying across the couch in blue silk pajama's, face planted in some romance novel. The record player was blaring David Bowie, and there was a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.

"The lab is completely abandoning the research on Progenitor and switching over to 'Tyrant virus.' I spent all day filing previous research and moving it to the basement," Annette said, visibly exhausted. She tossed her oversized bag on the dining table and pulled a chair out.

"What's 'Tyrant Virus?" Christine asked.

"I don't know yet... something Dr. Birkin came up with. Apparently it's a big deal. Once my shift was supposedly over, I asked if I could help him out with anything, but all he wanted was coffee." Annette made an exaggerated pouting face. "I couldn't resist. He's adorable."

Christine snorted and threw her book down against the coffee table.

"I think he's gay. Him and Al."

"You mean Wesker?"

"Yeah."

"They better not be. I stuck around to make Dr. Birkin four pots of coffee tonight!" Annette laughed, with an edge of disappointment.

"Al didn't want to go to dinner with me."

"And so he _must_ be gay, right?" Annette pantomimed. Christine glared in response and swiped her book back off the coffee table. "_To Play With Fire_? That sounds ominous."

"I'm just skipping ahead to the parts where they fuck."

"That sounds thrilling. Can I have a cigarette?"

"I thought you quit?"

"I did. Then Dr. Birkin and Wesker decided we were going to switch over completely from Progenitor and make every lab assistant and researcher file away the past two years of research. Don't you have any say in that?"

"I just fax things, honey. Oh, and if you want one, get off your ass and get it."

Annette got up from the table and walked over to the couch, snatching up Christine's pack and lighter. She lit one up and immediately started sputtering.

"God, your brand is awful. I quit again."

"Good for you. I bet Dr. Birkin doesn't like smokers. You're too sweet looking anyway."

Annette rolled her eyes, though she knew what Christine meant. With corn silk hair and glass blue eyes, Annette looked more like she should have been singing her way through the hills of Austria than playing with potentially world ending viruses in the basement of a mansion turned laboratory. Or at least making coffee for the mad scientists responsible.

"So, how has your night been?" Annette sat down on the couch, narrowly avoiding sitting on top of Christine's legs.

"Tory can't decide if she wants to screw Magnus or Denzil. My money is on the guy who's name sounds like the god of big dicks."

"So, Denzil, right?"

"Oh, obviously."

"Why do you read that crap?"

"Boredom and sexual frustration. Speaking of which, would you like to hear about how Al turned me down?"

"It's not like I have anything better to do."

"Fantastic!" Christine tossed her book aside once again, and pulled her knees up to her chest, sitting against the arm of the couch. "Let me tell you, I have never met a man so singularly infuriating as Albert Wesker. He came to me, asking for a _very large_ favor, and I suggested we discuss it over dinner, at which point he refused and left!" Christine made a little sighing noise and crossed her arms.

"And that's exactly what happened?" Annette asked, skeptical.

"_Exactly."_

"You're sure you didn't say something strange by accident?"

"Annie, my command of the English language is excellent. Anyway, Al is merely postponing what both of us know is bound to happen."

Annette raised an eyebrow.

"That being?"

"Well, obviously, Al and I are made for each other. We're both set on a path to the very top of Umbrella. He's really the only man I can see as being my equal. I mean, sure, Dr. Birkin is very smart and all, but he's got no vision..."

"Right, no vision. Well, I think maybe you should go over the plan with Al before you start picking out the color scheme of your nursery."

"You can be a real bitch sometimes, you know that?" Christine huffed. "Don't forget why you have this job." Christine pointed to herself. "Me. I know what I'm going to have, and you don't lay a finger on Will until Albert Wesker is mine." She was getting red in the face.

"As if that's going to be a problem," Annette responded, trying to make herself seem nonplussed by Christine's outburst. "I assure you, you have a much greater chance with Wesker than I have with Dr. Birkin. Anyway, thanks to those two, I need to go to bed. I have a whole day of filing to look forward to tomorrow."

Annette got off the couch and trudged off to her bedroom. Christine had been particularly bothersome of late, and it was starting to worry her. The obsession with Wesker was new, and Annette was fairly certain that it would end terribly.

Not bothering to take a shower or even brush her teeth, Annette collapsed into her bed, still wearing her blue polo shirt from work. She could already tell with a fair degree of certainty that she wouldn't be sleeping tonight. Between the last pot of coffee she'd helped Dr. Birkin finish off and Christine's worrisome behavior, tonight was going to be spent staring at the ceiling.

She thought about William smiling up at her when she came back into the lab with a fresh pot of coffee and remembering to ask her about her Ebola research. Then she thought about the prospect of losing her job, her apartment, and defaulting on her student loans.

Hopefully Dr. Birkin and Wesker really were together. That would save her a whole lot of trouble.

* * *

**August 18, 1980**

**08:42 **

"Morning, Miss Weiss."

"Oh, hi, Dr. Sarton. How are you?"

Annette rubbed her eyes, trying to summon up the energy to have a conversation with her superior.

"Just 'Henry' is fine, Miss Weiss."

Henry Sarton was a heavyset man with thick red hair and nervous eyes. He twitched almost constantly, which lead to his nasty habit of bumping things over. Annette didn't particularly like him—his discomfort with _everything_ was contagious. After spending enough time around him, she felt like she should be second guessing every action she made.

"Sorry; I forgot. What can I do for you, Henry?"

Dr. Sarton rocked back and forth on his heels.

"Dr. Birkin and Wesker are about to test the Tyrant Virus. All the researchers and assistants are supposed to observe."

In a lab where most everyone was under the age of thirty, Dr. Sarton was the oldest of the staff at thirty-five. Annette wondered if he resented being bossed around by a bunch of near-children.

"Is this immediate? I have a lot of work to do." Annette gestured to her workspace, a lone desk covered in papers, with several cardboard crates on the floor. "I don't know why no one bothers to file their research around here."

Sarton sweat. Annette wrinkled her nose.

"It's really rather urgent, Miss Weiss."

"Annette is fine. Let me just put these down..." Annette sat the papers down on her desk and did a cursory check of her name badge and lab coat. "Okay." She nodded at Dr. Sarton, who seemed relieved to leave her stuffy little office.

* * *

Female, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. Probable Russian or Middle Eastern ancestry. Coarse dark hair and wild gray eyes, darting everywhere. Gag over her mouth, tied down to the table.

A little sacrificial lamb.

Annette was sitting in the back of the large room, on top of an autopsy table, legs dangling above the floor. Next to her was fellow lab assistant, Gail, who looked completely exhausted. She was tall and gangly with olive skin, black hair and raccoon circles under her eye that matched Annette's. "What do you think they're going to show us?" She whispered to Annette. Annette shrugged in response.

Gail was the only other female lab assistant at Arklay, a distinction which lead to her and Annette frequently being paired together on projects.

"Dr. Birkin discovered some sort of Progenitor derivative, and now we're pouring all our resources into it. I assume they're going to show us what it is, maybe?"

"Tyrant virus, right?"

"Yeah, that's what it's called."

"Huh." Gail shrugged her shoulders. Annette heard the joints crack. "It better be really fucking good for them to be working us like this."

Woman at Umbrella were not known for their manners.

The room was full to bursting with researchers and assistants. Annette noticed that her fellow assistants had hung to the back of the room. Not having a doctorate was a sign of shame at Arklay, even though Wesker didn't have his either. He insisted on being called by his last name regardless. Annette didn't care for Wesker. Christine could have him, and his massive complex.

Dr. Birkin was hanging to the back, behind _Wesker The Great_. He looked just as beat up as the rest of them, if not worse. His posture had a stoop to it, and his hair was a disheveled mess. She felt a surge of pity for him.

How strange.

Wesker—perfectly composed, of course—got the attention of the room with a simple clear of his throat. He paced around the table where the girl writhed and screamed in protest to her restraints. No one paid her any attention.

"Today we will test the Tyrant virus on an... uncompromised human specimen." The lights shined off of Wesker's gold hair, illuminated him. Annette imagined the view the girl must have gotten of him from the table; some sort of angel of death.

"Prior experimentation on the Progenitor Type-B specimen proved to be inconclusive."

Lisa Trevor—the girl in the basement. She must have been a test subject first.

"The subject is a healthy 23 year old female of Bosnian descent with no complicating conditions. We've collected a DNA sample of her prior to infection that will end up on the desk of one of you lucky ladies or gentlemen." Wesker smirked. "Tyrant virus is an RNA acting mutagen derived from a composite of Progenitor virus with leech DNA, which stabilizes the otherwise uncontrollable mutations Progenitor may cause. As of now, the effects of testing upon a human population are unknown... but we are soon to find out. Dr. Birkin, if you will?"

Birkin produced a syringe from his lab coat, and the girl began screaming louder than ever. Birkin smiled down at her.

"Hush, it's almost over. But, I'd like to thank you for contributing so much to the field of virology."

He stuck the needle in her throat. The death was almost immediate, eyes fluttered, her body loosened to the restraints, head lolled to the side. Dead as a doornail, or whatever the saying was.

And Dr. Birkin had killed her too, right in front of a whole room of people who had sat by and watched as she screamed. Annette tried very hard to care. They were monsters, were they not?

But she couldn't bring herself to feel anything for the strange little girl who could have been her friend, laying on the autopsy slab, dead and gone while twenty people watched her demise at the hands of a man Annette still found herself attracted to. The situation had a very unhinged feeling to it all.

Dr. Birkin stood back and appraised the subject, who was rapidly graying with death.

"Well, death is useful, but we could have achieved the same effects with a neurotoxin. We need contagion."

"You have very little patience, Dr. Birkin," Wesker remarked.

It was odd, their little couple's spat right in front of everyone. Annette wanted to giggle, or maybe cry, she wasn't too sure, because the world felt like it was tilting on it's axis to her.

_Be sad._

_ Be fucking sad._

_ Be shocked or horrified or angry or something._

And then the tears came, she felt them welling up behind her eyes, in a strange burning way, because she hadn't cried in so long, and they weren't tears for the dead girl. They were tears for her own emotional impotency.

_Something is wrong with me._

"Hey, Annie, why are you crying?" Gail whispered, a perplexed look on her face. Annette searched herself for an acceptable answer, but before she could respond, someone yelped in surprise.

Annette snapped her head back to see the girl fighting in resistance of her restraints again. But something was different this time. Something was very different.

She broke the restraints this time, hissing and growling. The gag in her mouth was spat out, a chewed up and bloody mess. The subject's skin had taken on a blue-gray tinge, and there was blood oozing out of her mouth. The whole mess reminded Annette of a horror movie.

The girl sat up from the table, to the fascinated horror of Dr. Birkin. Annette couldn't see Wesker's expression behind the sunglasses. She shambled up from the table and took a lunging step towards a researcher. Annette couldn't identify him by the back of his head. The researcher took a step back, but before anyone could properly react, the girl leaned in and took a bite out of the man's shoulder.

Someone screamed, and still Wesker and Birkin looked on, as if they were appreciating the spectacle. There was blood everywhere. To the horror of everyone around the unlucky researcher, the girl started chewing into him, blood foaming up around her mouth, all the while the researcher screamed in pain.

"Should we page security?" she noticed Dr. Birkin saying to Wesker. Wesker pulled a gun out of his lab coat—of course he walked around with a gun everywhere—and shook his head.

"Unnecessary."

It took a few shots to the head, but Wesker put the girl down. The researcher she had bitten was still writhing on the floor.

"If the infection spreads through blood contact, we should isolate this specimen before..." Dr. Birkin began, but the statement was cut short by the moaning of the former employee on the floor. The man, a peculiar shade of gray, stumbled to his feet.

"I think we may have given them a much too concentrated dose," Dr. Birkin remarked, as the man stumbled towards him. Wesker shot the researcher in the knee. It didn't even react, stumbling forward and dragging the offending limb behind him. Wesker shot again, this time aiming for the head. The nose was deafening; the crack of bone and sick spill of blood. The man fell to the floor, inanimate.

"Next time, use better restraints," Wesker growled at his partner.

"Uh huh," Birkin replied, leaning over to look at the two fallen infected. The entire room was completely still. It was plausible that Wesker and Birkin had forgotten they had an audience.

There was a buzzing tension in the air. Everyone still alive in the room was simply lucky. Annette could see the subtle tremors of the front row—not for their fallen colleague, but scared for their lives.

"Oh, you can all leave now," Dr. Birkin said, an afterthought as he surveyed the room.

Annette and Gail gave each other quick glances with wide eyes and bolted from the room.

* * *

The first time Annette had been to a therapist growing up, it was after her father died.

The second, third, and fourth time Annette had been to a therapist, it was because when she was asked how she felt about her father's death, she looked back at them, completely lost.

_"What should I feel?"_

The fifth time was after Annette beat the tar out of some snotty nosed playground bully for making fun of a friend.

And at her Umbrella psychiatric evaluation they asked her what her biggest weakness was.

_"I find it extremely hard to care about other people."_

And then they asked her what her biggest weakness really was.

_"I care too much about very certain people."_

And that was the end of it. Written down in her file, nice and neat.

* * *

**August 18, 1980**

**15:25**

There was a subtle knock on the door. Annette raised her eyes off her desk. People didn't tend to knock, they just came walking right on in. The broom closet sized office was usually shared with another researcher or assistant, but today it was just Annette.

"Come in," she called. Wesker opened the door. A trace of blood was smeared on his lab coat.

"Oh, Wesker. What can I do for you?" she asked, false smile affixed to her face.

Wesker gave her his own sly smile, all sincerity and danger.

"What did you think of the demonstration today, Miss Weiss?"

Annette chose her words wisely.

"The T-Virus appears to have a great amount of potential as a bio-weapon."

Wesker nodded.

"I would tend to agree with your conclusion. Dr. Birkin and I also agreed with the conclusion of your personal research on the Ebola virus."

Annette felt her face flush. That paper was written solely as an excuse to talk to Dr. Birkin for a moment. She was surprised they had seriously looked into it.

"With the demands placed upon us by the T-Virus, Dr. Birkin and I are in need of dedicated resources. We're reassigning you to work full time on the T-Virus. There will be a pay raise involved, of course, and a change of office..."

Annette balked. After all she had seen today, the last thing she wanted to work on was the T-Virus. It scared her. Not the virus it's self, but her reaction to it all. If she didn't get out now...

"With all due respect, I don't want a part in this, Wesker."

Wesker pulled the sunglasses off. Annette looked to the floor.

"Look at me, Miss Weiss."

Annette looked up. She realized then what the sunglasses did.

"Don't you dare pretend that you're the better person." His eyes were going to make her melt with shame. "I personally read the psychological profiles of every employee at this lab."

She felt like he was stripping her down with his eyes and his words. The shameful burning sensation returned in the back of her throat.

"Don't be ashamed of what you are, Miss Weiss. Your particular set of skills could prove to be very useful."

Annette nodded, blank.

"Though, I think you may want to look into new housing accommodations. Miss Henri's profile was a much more interesting read than yours."

"She's my friend..." Annette whispered, trying to avoid his line of sight.

"Sporadic emotional attachment? Do you feel the need to _fix me_ as well? Perhaps if I could persuade you of such, you would be eager to take on this project."

"I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to help people," Annette sputtered out, her last weak defense.

"Your soul is corrupted, Miss Weiss. Your intentions are not important. This is my final offer. You will join Dr. Birkin and I as a personal research assistant and report directly to us, and only us. Dr. Birkin is not easily impressed. You should take this offer as a compliment... and a demand."

Annette's knees knocked together. She felt her palms begin to sweat.

"I accept." Her mouth was dry.

She could have sworn she saw him smile at her words. There was something unkind to it.

"I will see you in your new workspace then, tomorrow."

"Thank you, Wesker." She extended her hand for a handshake. Wesker paused and put his glasses back on before reciprocating. She was glad for it.

As soon as Wesker turned, Annette made her way out of the office, first walking slowly, and then breaking out into a run as she cleared the doors.

She would not sell her soul, no matter how corrupted it was. She would leave tonight, pack her bags and disappear. Student loans be damned, people defaulted everyday. She had enough money for a shitty motel room, she could stay for a few days, clear her mind, and then what?

Still running, Annette turned the corner and slammed straight into William Birkin.

"Oh my God; I'm so sorry!"

Dr. Birkin seemed to have the wind knocked out of him. He took a few gasps while Annette yelped and cried out her multiple apologies.

"Are you okay?"

Once he caught his breath, William laughed, much to her relief.

"My new assistant is already trying to kill me, and I haven't even started you on the photocopying."

"Oh yes, um, thank you for the promotion!"

She felt like she was tripping over all her words, her mouth running as she tried desperately to control her emotions.

"Your research on Ebola is very insightful. It's written at a doctorate level."

Annette blushed, she couldn't help herself. Even after everything that happened, she found her pesky attraction to him returning, full force. He seemed so vulnerable to her at times, his paper skin and big eyes, almost like a kid thrust into the lab without knowing what he was going to be taking part in. Her pulse was droning in her ears.

"Do you feel okay?" he asked her. Annette could feel how hot and red her face was.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine. I'm just a little...frazzled from everything today."

William nodded at her.

"The loss of a coworker..."

She cut him off.

"I'm scared, Dr. Birkin."

He studied her face. He was so close to her, it made her weak.

"Of what?"

"Monsters."

He gave her a sympathetic smile.

"We will control the monsters, Miss Weiss."

She didn't have the heart to tell him that they were the monsters she was talking about.

* * *

But she came back to work the next day.

She told herself it was for the chance to work along side Dr. Birkin.

But she thought it might have something to do with Wesker's words to her.

She was already corrupted.

* * *

**Author's Note**: This chapter was quite the process. Some parts came really easily and others I had to work at for awhile until I got what I really wanted to say. I also lost my progress twice thanks to laptop batteries and personal negligence.

I intended on using all _serious_ quotes from archaic books for this story, but the one for this chapter just fit too damn well.

Just a side note, all my OC's get their names from various files in RE1 and RE2. My inspiration for writing this was thinking about how many hints we're given about Umbrella, without every being told what was really going on behind the scenes.

Thanks for reading!


End file.
